


Your hands touching mine is how galaxies collide

by DarkShadows93



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920s gangs, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Blood, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Falling In Love, Ghost Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Music, Mentions of Car Accidents, Mentions of Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pianist Aziraphale, Slow Burn, Warnings May Change, both of them have a lot of issues, meant to be posted on halloween, mentions 1920s violence, mentions death of spouse, piano music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows93/pseuds/DarkShadows93
Summary: Antonia Crowley is a lonely 20th-century spirit, bounded to a house with the secrets that led to her deathZira Fell is a ghost among the living, a grief sicken pianist unable to paint glorious pictures with a tune, now haunted by the death of her wife.Two souls broken in ways that are unspeakable, slowly turn to each other for solace and perhaps find something more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Your hands touching mine is how galaxies collide

**Author's Note:**

> So I was supposed to have posted this around Halloween but life has gotten in the way. The muse can also be a horrid temptress and distract me with other projects.

_ Angel of God never has wings — Joseph Smith Jr.  _

Dying was like sleeping, a dream that never ends as your past flashes before your eyes. It was like a stone pressed against your chest as your torturer interrogates you on your mistakes. One can not escape it, for it was always there, watching and waiting for you to come to her. She was a cruel mistress, Death. Her mere existence was to flirt with those who seek it and take those who don’t. She was inevitable as she was infinite. The world slowly turned to wait for her gentle kiss and the moment where everything seemed to fade away like a dream. Death wasn’t the end for most beings. Some lingered and remained. Their souls, forever trapped in a fine space between the realm of death and the living until they finally move on. Their existence seemed like a dream. One minute, they appeared to the living, begging to be free. Next, they are trapped, invisible, and alone. 

Even though she had died years ago, Antonia Crowley still felt the stone pressed against her chest. Her body felt weightless and heavy all at once. Her existence is held together by a fine thread of unfinished business, though her mind was empty of what it could be. Like falling from the Grace of Heaven, Death had stripped her of everything that made her feel alive. No earthly vessel. No unfinished business. Not even a loved one to remember her. The only thing she carried was the horrid wretched memory of her demise and the house that was now her prison. A sentence for an unspoken crime. What had she done to deserve such a fate? The years following were supposed to be the greatest years of her life. Finally, she felt free from all the restraints she had grown up with. But within the first two years following the Great War, Antonia died, drowning in her blood. She didn’t deserve this fate. All she did was ask questions, the wrong sort of questions that ended up with a knife to her chest. 

Crowley was a serpent in the empty house. Her body wandering the empty halls, watching as her memories faded into oblivion. Her family home had used to be a proud Victorian manor with a high pitched roof and crimson-colored brickwork It was the prized gem of the street corner, a gemstone tarnished with years of misuse, forgotten by time, and left to rot. Cobwebs filled the corners of the narrow halls, windows cracked years of neglect. The patterned wallpaper peeled from the wall in large strips leaving dust to cover its floor. 

People tried to live inside the tarnished home, their presence a welcomed sight to the forgotten soul. But yet, Crowley always managed to scare them away. She didn’t mean to at first. She had kept her distance as she pondered her existence, asking herself how to free her soul from the chains that kept her. She wanted to have a friend, someone to ease her to the uncertainty of the next life. 

Sometimes, she would appear just to say hello to a child or two. But with sequin dress permanently stained crimson, the children found her frightening, calling her murderous spirit. All she wanted was to have a friend, someone that could help her ease to her next life. Crowley had learned long ago that the dead never have friends, they were just a forgotten book in a library gathering dust until the world ends. 

It was winter when the latest person came to brave the haunted halls of Ophidian Hall. A storm had blown through the town, the snowdrifts looked like impassable mountains on the streets. Ice hung from the trim like steel swords, sharp points threatening to take down any dragon that came past. Intricate frost painted the windows with ornate designs, swirls and crystals looked like tears of heaven. Crowley watched as a moving van braved the mountains, pulling up in front of the small buried path. She wondered how long would this current visitor stay. Would it be a day? A month? Maybe, if she was lucky, her visitor would break the record of six months. Six months was better than a day, right? A smile blossomed on her pale lips as she watched with curiosity as her visitor climbed from the truck and started her journey through the mountainous terrain. 

The anticipation was thrilling, watching as her visitor struggled through the mountain passes like a daring explorer. If her heart still carried a rhythm, it would be drumming loudly through her chest. It was like watching something new for the first time. It was the rush of excitement. The opportunity to meet someone new, praying to some higher power that they would be different. No running, no screaming, no fainting. Just a genuine person, a human, and not a ghost. This visitor would be her new chance for redemption for her unknown crime, a judge to declare her innocent from all her faults. A jury to set her free. 

As her visitor approached the home, the door released a low moan, the harsh wind kicking in massive flakes of snow. Like a small child, Crowley watched the new occupant of her home slowly emerge from the snow-covered landscape. The white crystals clung to their hooded jacket like stars in the cloudless night sky. A soft shiver of breath filled the silence as a pair of thin, pale, and delicate-looking hands twitched apprehensively. 

“Dear Lord,” Her new visitor breathed out in a delicate whisper. A woman! Crowley beamed as she approached her, examining the platinum blond curls as they bled from beneath the cream-colored hood. Oh, happy days! A woman! What did she look like? 

“I do believe I have my work cut out for me….”

The woman wandered to the parlor, the hood still protecting her features from Crowley’s piqued curiosity. Her footfalls were a gentle rhythm echoing off the dilapidated walls, her hands dancing through the air like fingers running across piano keys as her voice hummed to a melancholic but peaceful tune. 

Crowley's delicate brow furrowed as she watched the woman fade from her view. Her hand clutching at her chest, the song seemed like a dream, a dream long since forgotten. A memory of a gramophone playing the song, hearing the melody like gentle waves out at sea. She closed her eyes, feeling her body hover from the floor as she fell deeper into the melody. 

Hypnotized by the song, Crowley followed the woman, her hand raising with a snap of her fingers as she hummed a joyful tune. Crowley snapped her fingers, the front door closing softly as she joined the woman in the parlor. Hidden beneath cream colored fabric and faux fur, the woman appeared like a beautiful ray of sunshine shining in the darkroom. Crowley stilled as she watched the woman examine the faded paintings, running her fingers against the thick layer of dust that laid upon the fireplace mantel. 

“Who forgot to care for you, old girl?" The Woman asked aloud to no one, spinning around like a ballerina in the spotlight, "Tell me secrets, your stories. Tell me-?” 

A gasp escaped her lips, as a trembling hand reached toward the old piano, the sheet yellowed from age. Crowley lowered her head, feeling guilt as a memory of her father playing joyful tunes back when life was simple and grand. Crowley’s father used to play it back when life was simple and grand. Could she remember when life was that simple? Did she know anything but destruction and fear?

Crowley hovered to the piano, placing her hand atop the sheet, as she watched her visitor stare lifelessly at the instrument. She hummed sadly as she stared down at the sheet, wishing she could feel the polished wood beneath her fingertips, the smooth ivory keys, being able to hear the chords once more. Crowley frowned as she tried to remember her father, what he looked like, how he acted, how he smelled, his mannerisms and demeanor. Was he a kind soul or a devil in disguise? 

The sounds of the visitor shuffling pulled Crowley from her thoughts, the woman seeming to gain a touch of courage, as she pulled the cloth from atop the piano in a splendid cloud of dust. 

“Please, let me see your face,” Crowley whispered as she tried to stare into the eyes of her visitor. 

The piano was simple oak and sturdy. The years of age bore its scars leaving cracks and splinters and pools of water damage. Dust fell like the flakes of snow, painting the ivory keys in the murky film. Crowley could sense the brief flicker of happiness, the smallest of smiles before it morphed into dread, sadness, and grief. Crowley stood in front of the woman, watching as a stray tear ran down her cheeks. What hurt this poor child? Granted, the woman was no child by any means but compared to lifetimes- she was younger than she could ever be.

“Oh, bother, this was a mistake. A foolish mistake.”

What? What was a mistake? Crowley felt the panic consume her, her eyes jutting to the piano before rushing to the woman's side as she rushed away from the instrument. Confusion filled the air as Crowley heard the woman mumbled incoherently to herself. Wait! Don’t go. Don’t-

“Don’t go.” The word slipped from Crowley’s lips like a whisper in the wind. The heavenly woman paused as the wind blew the door open, the hood falling from her curls in a single gust.

The pair stood in silence, the woman staring out into the winter landscape and Crowley, staring at the angel before her. The silence was the sort of silence that the living and the dead shared. It was two souls connected by a single veil of the unknown, the period of uncertainty leaving one asking if the impossible did exist. Crowley heard a sharp intake, followed by a raspy breath as she watched the woman slowly turn to face her. The woman's face was rounded, soft, her cheeks red from the bitter cold that kissed her cheeks, eyes like stars, bright and blue like the sea, the curls draped down her face like a crown upon her head, a halo of unspeakable beauty.

Crowley's eyes widened, a desperate whisper of a breath escaped from her pale lips as she stared into the face of the angel before her. She blinked, watching as the snow fell upon her curls like falling stars. Divine. This woman was divine. Time and Death were cruel to her. For teasing such beauty before her, a forbidden fruit unable to kiss her lips. Antonia Crowley would have fallen for her immediately if this was a different time. The angel's beauty rivaling the best-suited men and women in town. Was this a test for the spirit? Could it be that even in death, she could find herself falling for an angel that bore no wings?

Desperate was a horrible word to name her devotion to the divine creature. If there was any word to call the feeling that warmed her soul; it was love. Crowley approached the angel with the grace of a lovesick fool, her hands extended out wanting nothing much, but to run her fingers through her delicate curls, to feel her soft skin, to praise her lips with a kiss. Reality only reminded her of the impossible as her fingers phased through her.

The angel gasped, her eyes widened in fear and confusion as she stared down at the arm that ran through her center. Crowley pulled out her arm, staring at the angel with just as much confusion. Did she-? Before Crowley could ask the question that burned at her soul, her angel spun on her heels, running out into the snow barren land, slamming the door with a fierce rattle. 

"Not again..." Crowley breathed out. Defeated, the lonely spirit stared out the door, into the fierce winter storm as she watched her angel follow her predecessors and ran away.

It was never a question to ask a spirit if they enjoyed dying or being left behind in an ever-changing world. It was torture to experience both. Dying was never a peaceful experience. It was painful, like a searing fire consuming every ounce of one soul, the sudden shock of one heart freezing mid beat, the sensation of crashing to the ground. The pain was only temporary, the fire faded the moment the soul left the earthly vessel. 

The true pain, Antonia Crowley would say was being frozen in an ever-changing world. The seasons still change and snow and leaves may still fall but it was time that was changing. Time itself was a horrible master in his own sick game. A game she could never win when there was always one thing that remained the same: fear of the unknown. How dare he bring an angel into her afterlife only to take her away?

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Like what you've read? Please like, comment, and subscribe. It really does help.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr if you want to chat: darkshadows93


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